


Amen

by liftedandgifted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Bottom Dean, Dark Sam Winchester, Knifeplay, M/M, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 07:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6744631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liftedandgifted/pseuds/liftedandgifted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was sick, the desire Sam had in him. The deep, aching hunger that burned through him every time he looked at his brother. Something dark and surreptitious lurked behind every glance, every touch, and the yearning only grew with age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amen

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE HEED THE TAGS GUYS. This fic is really quite dark and kinky and graphic. Lots of blood, okay.

It was sick, the desire Sam had in him. The deep, aching hunger that burned through him every time he looked at his brother. Something dark and surreptitious lurked behind every glance, every touch, and the yearning only grew with age.

The first time he’d noticed it was in the back of the Impala, age four. Dean cut his finger on a book he’d been fiddling with, and before he could wipe the blood from the small scratch, Sam had his pudgy fingers wrapped around his brother’s wrists. “Sammy, what are you doing?” Dean asked, annoyed at being interrupted.

“Shhh Dean, jus’ lemme look.” He sat in front of his brother’s hands, felt the blood rushing through the wrists he held, and stared with wide, curious eyes at the crimson streak making its way down his brother’s finger. He leaned closer, as close as he could, breath falling heavy and cold on Dean’s skin. He reached an abrupt tongue out to lick at the finger, preparing to draw it into his mouth, and suddenly Dean pulled back. “What the heck Sam!? You don’t lick people’s blood! That’s disgusting!” Dean shook his wrists out of Sam’s grasp and wiped the blood on his jeans.

Sam didn’t understand what was so gross about it. It was pretty, something he felt should be savored. A sweet tang filled his mouth from the tiny amount he’d been able to get, and he wished for more. He stared at the stain on Dean’s pants the rest of the car ride.

It was a year later when Sam fell on the playground, scraping up his knees and hands. Dean was rushing over to him, making sure he was all right, but Sam wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at his palms, the way the blood rose gently to the surface, droplets squeezing from the tiny wounds littering his hands. Tongue flat and wide, he licked up each palm, eyes closed in concentration and bliss. When Dean reached him he was frantic, worried Sam would be upset and hurt. The only thing Sam was upset about was that Dean’s blood was sweeter.

Dean and Sam shared a bed, always had, and Sam hoped they always would. Dean began stashing a knife under his pillow like their daddy, and he slept restlessly for weeks until Sam found a way to calm him. He sang to his brother as he slept, curling a few small fingers through stubbly hair, and Dean would relax, sink deeper into the bed, and sometimes even snore. Sam was proud to be helping his big brother sleep.

One night, he was singing to Dean his favorite song at the moment, a rock tune their dad played in the car, when he noticed the hilt of Dean’s knife peeking out from under the pillow. Instead of shoving it back under like Sam originally intended to do, he grabbed at it knowing Dean was too deep in his slumber to wake up. He unsheathed it, warmth curling inside him as he looked at the lethal weapon glinting in moonlight. He tried to ignore it, the dark desire he kept hidden, but here, in the dim of the night and alone except for his sleeping brother, Sam indulged his fantasies. He looked at Dean as he sang, holding the knife with reverent hands, and imagined carving his big brother like they carved pumpkins in his kindergarten class last year. He knew about the blood under the skin, and sometimes if Dean would let him cuddle, he could hear the movement inside his brother’s veins, heart pumping sweet juice throughout Dean’s body.

His singing became shaky, and it was hard controlling his trembling hands as Sam cut into his brother, a thin scrape just above his ankle. Just once, Sam promised himself. He hummed as he lapped at the warm skin. It wasn’t enough, not nearly what Sam needed, but it would do for the time being. He had to stop himself from moaning loud enough to wake Dean as he relished in the flavor of his brother’s life. In the morning Sam would tell Dean he must have scraped his leg when they were playing in the woods. There were lots of sharp branches. But for now, he’d rest his head on Dean and pour his love and adoration into him while he did his best to catch every drop of heaven drawn from inside.

He didn’t hate himself or the craving in his gut until Dean started hunting. Sam got left behind, but he didn’t mind so much since he was the one that got to clean up the mess. Each time the Impala pulled up after a hunt, Sam couldn’t help the anticipation he felt, the saliva pooling in his mouth. He couldn’t help but pray to God when his family was gone that Dean would get wounded. He prayed for the best ones, with cuts that gushed enough to be fresh when they returned. The ones where their dad would walk in, an arm under Dean’s shoulder, and lead him to bed saying, “Sam, patch your brother up.”

Sam did more than that. Sam murmured his love for his brother’s soul into the wounds of his sibling, tongue tracing hearts into blood strewn across salty-sweet skin. Dean whined and moaned, unable to take this away from Sam. He’d do anything, give anything for his little brother, and Sam wasn’t above exploiting that. He thought Dean would let Sam drink him dry if that’s what Sam wanted. And sometimes, Sam let himself dream of it. Dreamed of slitting a pretty hole in his brother’s neck and letting the syrupy liquid fill his mouth.

Every drop of warm crimson Sam consumed was done so with utter devotion and awe. It never got old, feeling like he always had a part of Dean inside of him, a piece of his life, his essence. Dean learned to love the feeling of Sam’s warm and slick tongue, darting in and out of the crimson folds left by Sam’s sharp instruments. 

A little older and Sam began stroking his brother’s cock while cutting into flesh. He would tie Dean up, laugh at the way he writhed and sobbed, overwhelmed by the pleasure and pain Sam provided. Sam loved the way Dean’s white juice mixed with the red, the finest of wines combining to create something more delectable than the sweetest dessert. Dean sniffled and huffed in the aftermath, barely feeling Sam’s worshipful tongue clean his skin.

Then Sam left for Stanford, leaving a gaping hole in Dean’s heart and a rumbling hunger in Sam’s belly.

It didn’t last long, the separation. Months later Dean woke in the middle of the night from a restless slumber, only to see a familiar silhouette leaning over him on the bed. He saw the silver gleam of a familiar object in the moonlight, and couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. He rolled over, naked and pliant, and reveled in the veneration from his little brother.

He sighed as the blade sunk into his hip. “Welcome home, Sammy.”


End file.
